Chapter 27 #2
He couldn’t use his influencer ability. He’d tested it the moment he’d regained consciousness, reaching for the familiar hum of power, and found nothing. Like trying to flex a muscle that had been anesthetized—the intent was there, but the response was dead.
His mind-reading was gone too. And the connection to Gregor, the bond he was only now understanding had been there for months, maybe years, humming beneath the surface of their relationship like a bass note too low to consciously hear but present in every interaction, every touch, every moment of inexplicable certainty that this man was where Fergal belonged.
Fated mates. The term surfaced with a clarity that was almost cruel in its timing.
He’d heard Erwan and Rhene talk about it—the bond that transcended choice, the connection that made separation physically painful, the knowing that went deeper than logic or experience.
Fergal had listened and nodded and filed it under interesting but not personally relevant.
He’d been too busy to recognize that the pull between them, the inability to be apart, the way his body reached for Gregor’s warmth in sleep had all been the bond, speaking a language neither of them had learned to translate.
And now it was gone, cut off by dampening magic that treated their connection like a wire to be snipped. The absence was so acute that Fergal had to lean his forehead against the cool glass and breathe through the wave of something that felt disconcertingly like grief.
Gregor. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left without telling you.
I’m sorry I didn’t trust you and let us face this together.
I’m sorry the last real conversation we had was a fight about the things you won’t tell me.
I’m sorry that right now you’re tearing yourself apart with guilt because that’s what you do, you impossible, beautiful, infuriating man, and I can’t reach you to tell you that this isn’t your fault.
None of this is your fault.
Except for the part where you won’t say you love me. That part is absolutely your fault, and when I get out of here, we’re going to have words about it.
The defiance surfaced like a reflex, sharp and clarifying. Good. Defiance he could work with. Defiance was fuel.
He straightened, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and started cataloging his situation with systematic precision.
He was alive. They could’ve easily killed him, but they hadn’t. That meant they wanted him alive, which meant he had value, which meant he had leverage.
He was dampened but not drugged, which meant they wanted him conscious and coherent. They needed something from him—information, cooperation, a signature on legal documents, something his mind could provide.
And he could hear other people in this building. Footsteps above him. Muffled voices through the walls. The compound wasn’t a prison for one king. People lived here—more than just the remaining Murphy alphas. So where was he? Who had the Murphys teamed up with?
Sounds from beyond the wall to his left startled him. Shouting, scuffling, the meaty thud of bodies colliding, followed by a door slamming hard enough to rattle the frame and the heavy clank of a lock engaging.
Then cursing. Creative, furious, extensive cursing in a voice that sounded familiar, but not enough to place right away. It was thick with rage, running through a catalog of profanity that was impressive in both its breadth and its anatomical specificity.
“Get your fucking hands off me, you bastards!”
More slamming. A fist hitting the wall—the wall Fergal was leaning against—hard enough to vibrate through the plaster and into his spine.
Then silence. Breathing, harsh and ragged, was audible through the thin partition between their rooms. Then the voice again, quieter now, wary, “Is someone there?”
“I’m here,” Fergal said. “Who are you?”
A pause. The breathing on the other side steadied. “King Fergal?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“It’s Duff. Duff Bás.”
Fergal closed his eyes. Of course. Of all the people to end up in the cell next to his, fate had chosen the man who’d been framed for killing his family. The universe had a sick sense of humor.
But then he frowned. Why in all that was holy would the Murphys kidnap Duff? “How did you end up here?”
He framed his question broadly, nowhere near convinced he could trust Duff.
“I followed you. Saw you leave the compound and head for the trees. Something felt wrong. I could feel it, like a pull, a buzzing under my skin. So I followed you.” He paused.
“They teleported you out of there, and I figured that was it, I’d lost you.
I was about to alert your commander that something was wrong when one of them returned and discovered me.
He hit me with magic.” Another pause. “I didn’t think I had magic.
But whatever they hit me with hurt like they were suppressing something that was already there. ”
Gregor had told him about the protection prayers. About the Irish “prayers” Duff hadn’t known were spells. “Duff,” Fergal said carefully. “When we get out of here—and we will get out of here—I think you and I have even more to talk about than you realize.”
“Cryptic. Love that. Very helpful when you’re locked in a room with no windows.”
“I have a window.”
“Well, aren’t you the lucky one?” The bitterness softened into something that was almost humor. “What can you see?”
“Flat terrain. Brown grass. Outbuildings. A fence. No mountains, no snow.”
“So we’re still in the same climate zone. South, from the vegetation.” He cursed. “Approximately two hundred miles from where we were taken.”
“How do you know the distance?”
“Because I know whose property this is. And when I tell you, you’re going to be very, very angry.”
“I’m already very, very angry.”
“Then you’re going to be angrier.”
Fergal steadied himself mentally. “Hit me with it.”
“This property belongs to Cladhaire Doyle, the man whose crimes started all of this. And the people holding us are the Murphy alphas, which means they’re now working together.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “You were right. I am even angrier than before.”
“Trust me, so am I. The Murphys have been pulling the strings behind every major attack, every assassination, and every false flag operation for decades.”
“Including framing you for my father’s murder.”
“Including that,” Duff confirmed.
The silence that followed was different from the ones before. Not shock. Not processing. Calculation.
“Well then, Fergal,” Duff said, and his voice had shifted into something harder, something with edges. “I suggest we start figuring out how to get out of here. Because I have some questions for these people, and I’d like to ask them in person.”
Fergal smiled. It was thin and sharp and held no joy, but it was a smile, and it was the first one since he’d walked into the tree line and the world had gone silent. “I couldn’t agree more.”